Guardian Angel
by bloodrosered
Summary: This is story takes place during Colleen's father's, Lt. Francis "Frank" O'Shea, childhood. Growing up in a poor section of Boston with a drunk father and a lonely, overwhelmed but imaginative mother and his baby brother, Frank is saved by an angel from drowning one winter's day and he still wonders who saved him.


**AN: A story told in the POV of Colleen O'Shea's father, Lt. Francis 'Frank' O'Shea.**

* * *

 _Boston, MA, circa 1950_

My name is Frank Doherty. I just woke up to the sun peeking through the windows of our apartment; there's a strong chill. Blinking my eyes, I looked outside to see that a fresh snow had fallen since last night. My room was freezing; with a shiver, I grabbed one of my sweaters that Mum had made me.

There were times I loved the winter: ice skating, sledding, snowball fights. And times I hated it was the dreaded cold, especially when there was no money for heat. Nights when I'd be shivering, curled up under the wool blanket, trying to stay warm...even nights when I would climb into bed with Mum, snuggling next to her for warmth. No heat meant no hot meals. No hot meals meant Baby Michael would be crying all night.

Just as I was enjoying the silence, Baby Michael started up again. The sound was already ringing in my ears. He had been crying all night and I was unable to sleep. After being unable to sleep, I looked through my door to see Mum bouncing the baby, whispering shush and humming, trying to get him to calm down before trying to feed him a bottle. I love my new brother, but he could be so loud. He'd scream all night long that I barely got any sleep. I suspected that he was a changeling: a faerie child that the Fair Folk would leave in place of a human one. Mum said that it's possible (jokingly, of course) since she said changelings were always fussy.

I needed to get away from the noise, but there were times I didn't want to leave Mum. I was afraid that she might get mad at me because I chose to go play than help her out. Even though I was only five, I still offered to help out: taking Michael out in the pram to the local park. Washing dishes. Helping her cook dinner. Cleaning. Just anything so she could rest.

But she always told me: "Go play, Francis. Go have fun."

I loved Mummy. Her stories were the best. She told me all about the magical creatures that lived in Ireland, our homeland. I never had the chance to see the green hills of Erin since Mummy told me I was only a baby when she and Da came to America. She would tell me about the fairies. The brownies. Even the playful spirits. When she told her stories, I imagined I was far away from our apartment on the West End of Boston and in the green fairy hills of Ireland, meeting the Fair Folk. Dancing with the leprechauns. Leaving sweets for the brownies as favors to clean our house.

But since Baby Michael came into our lives a few months ago, she was always tired. She barely had time for me. She would be too tired to tell me her stories-sometimes she'd fall asleep in the middle of telling me a story. I'd wake her up and she'd apologize, then start telling the story from the beginning even though I heard it already.

Still it was better than nothing.

When I got up out of bed, I went to Mum's room. I stuck my head in, seeing an exhausted Mummy trying to soothe the new baby. She spent the whole night trying to feed him with little success. The bottle was probably ice cold since there was no heat. Da wasn't home again as usual. I already knew where he was. At the pub, drinking away what little money we had.

Baby Michael was starving and he needed a hot drink. We had no money. I wondered a lot about what we were going to do. It was so cold in here that I could see my breath rising. Mummy wrapped baby Michael in every blanket she could find in the house. She was sitting in the bed, trying to keep him warm. Usually, we got money from welfare-or as Mummy called it 'the dole'. She'd stand in those long lines, waiting for her turn. The moment we got a check from welfare, it'd be gone. Da always stole it and went out to drink instead of buying food, clothes and such. Our utilities would be shut off and we'd have to burn stuff in the fireplace or go stay at Mrs. MacDougall's, the Scottish neighbor that was close friends with Mum and worked at the local laundromat. She always welcomed us into her home when there was no food or heat.

"Mum?" I asked. "Can I go ice skating?"

Mum looked up with her exhausted green eyes and her matted, dark hair hanging over. She let out a sigh, her breath rising over her pointed nose.

"Wait 'til Da gets home, Francis," she said.

I sighed, disappointed that I couldn't go by myself. Who knew how bad of a state he was in today. I nodded and decided to get ready. I grabbed my winter coat and boots, wrapped my knit scarf that Mum made for me. Given that it was cold inside as it was outside, I'd feel much warmer in my winter clothes.

I was just getting my ice skates together when Da came home, staggering drunk, naturally. That's when the fight began. Mum stormed over to him with anger in her eyes.

"Where t'hell have ye been?!" Mum demanded. "Ye didn't pay the heat and they shut off Did ye even find a job?"

"I'm goin' t', Aileen!" Da would answer.

"Bollocks, Jim!"

They'd start arguing and the baby started crying. I frowned as I listened to them arguing. They always fought. Then Da would take off, saying he'd go for a walk. Then come back hours later, drunk. Sometimes he didn't come back at all. I'd hear some of Mum's chats with Mrs. MacDougall, saying she suspected Da was seeing some tart (whatever that meant; I didn't get why Da would be going out getting drunk every night with a pastry). Then there'd be the long silences between them. They wouldn't speak to each other or very little. The tension would be so high in the room that I didn't like it. It was days like that when I went over to Mrs. MacDougall's to stay there. She'd feed me, let me take a bath, or get warm by the heater.

"What d' ye want me t' do, Aileen?" Drunk Da said.

"Just take Francis out ice skatin'."

"C'mon, can't you do it, Aileen? I just got in the door."

"I've been up almost twenty-four hours with Michael, Jimmy!" she snapped. "Besides, you promised him."

"Fine, fine!" he said. "Francis, get yer skates."

My whole body was quivering with excitement at the idea of skating with Da. He promised me that he would take me out. Usually he never kept a promise. Today he actually would take me to the park. I grabbed my skates and slung them over my shoulder. I could still smell the alcohol on his breath and the vomit on his clothes. It made me sick that my father was like this every day and yet, I couldn't help but be happy that at least he would do stuff with me: play catch, fishing, ice skating, even tell me stories and jokes that would make me laugh.

When we got to the park with the pond, Da helped me tie my skates on and I wobbled on the ice. Da followed lightly behind. He gave me a lesson, showing me how to hold my balance and simple ice skating moves. We did this for a while until he said he wanted to sit on the bench to rest a minute. He told to practice what we worked on, but to stay close so he could see me.

I called him, wanting to show him what I had worked on. I realized I had gone a bit too far from where he was. I called out to him again, but I don't think he heard me. He was just sitting there. I wondered if he fell asleep. I went towards the land when I heard something crack. I looked around to see where the noise was coming from...

...that's when it happened. The ice beneath me gave way and I fell into the freezing water. I barely had time to scream when I saw the hole I had fallen into. I bobbed to the surface, screaming Da's name, but he didn't hear me. It was still early and not a lot of people were around.

I went under again...the icy water began to weigh down my clothes. I was being pulled under. I was scared. I splashed, struggling to stay above the surface. The icy water was filling my lungs, making me cough. I struggled to grab onto whatever I could find, but I couldn't get a good grip...stupid ice slipped under my grip on my wet, frozen mittens.

...It was then that something strong grabbed me and pulled me out of the water. I coughed violently, shivering. I could've sworn I heard a voice.

"Hey, you alright, kid?" it said.

I looked, shivering and feeling my clothes start to freeze; ice froze my hair, eyelashes and eyebrows and my cheeks and lips stung from the cold. I couldn't make out who was speaking to me. I saw a blob. But I clearly remember some eyes. Blue. I couldn't make out who had saved me. I was certain he was my Guardian Angel. Yet...where was his wings? I always imagined angels had wings. Maybe he didn't want to look too obvious.

"Hey, kid," said the boy. "Are you alright? You gotta be careful on that ice."

I could only nod, coughing and shivering.

"Frankie?" called my father, confused.

The boy looked over as he saw my father waking up. He carried a shepherd's crook, which was frozen where his hand held. It was clear to me that this boy wasn't an angel. He was a spirit. Maybe a fairy. Something that was right out of Mum's stories.

"Jaysus Christ, Frankie!" said my father in shock. "What happened to you?"

"I fell in the ice," I said weakly, shivering harder.

"Come, let's get you home."

I don't remember much being carried home. I do remember Mum and Da were fighting again as I was wrapped up in blankets and sat near the stove. Mum was really angry at Da for letting this happened.

The next day when Da left for the pub, Mum packed up our stuff and we left our apartment and stayed at Mrs. MacDougall's. Mum forbid us to speak to our father nor allowed us to see him again. She told me when I was older that when I had that accident on the ice, Da had passed out from the drink. How I could've been killed. She never forgave my father for what he had done.

Mum went to her maiden name O'Shea. She changed our names as well. She didn't want the stain of that irresponsible drunk's name on us. We were now Francis and Michael O'Shea.

I neAll I know is someone saved me. To this day, I try to remember who, but I guess I'll never know what happened that day.


End file.
